


Life's Not a Song

by Luthien



Series: After Everything [6]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Episode Tag, Episode: s08e02 A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, F/M, Fix-It, Missing Scene, POV Outsider, Romance, a little bit of Sansa/Theon, references to canon rape and trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-03 02:54:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21172241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthien/pseuds/Luthien
Summary: Jaime Lannister arrives at Winterfell, to fulfil his promise to fight for the living, or so he says. Sansa finds herself wondering just what exactly lies between the Kingslayer and Brienne of Tarth.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the title comes from Buffy.
> 
> I found myself wondering about what Sansa thought about a lot of things, including very much what she thought about Jaime and Brienne, and so this story happened.
> 
> This is set right at the beginning of my [After Everything](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1501139) fix-it series, when things are still in the before, starting with Jaime's trial at the beginning of 8x02. The dialogue in the opening scene comes from that episode and so, obviously, is not mine. 
> 
> **Please note:** this series is NOT written in chronological order. All of the stories should be able to be read more or less as stand-alones, but you can find them listed in chronological order [here](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1501139) if you want to read them that way.
> 
> Thank you to slipsthrufingers and Nire for audiencing and cheerleading, and especially to Firesign for looking this over with a fresh pair of eyes when I couldn't rewrite it any more.

Sansa doesn’t understand.

Everything seems very straightforward when the Kingslayer is brought before them. Daenerys accuses him of the crimes against her family for which he is justly notorious. He does not flinch, Sansa will say that much for him. In fact, he looks almost a little bored as he waits for the Queen to finish reciting her grievances against him down to the very last detail, glancing away as if he's heard it all before—as, of course, he has. When Daenerys starts to talk about what she and her brother had planned to do to him, when the day came that he was in their power, though, he looks straight back at her, his stare steady, his stance straight and proud. Even insolent.

Whatever else the Kingslayer is, and however much Sansa might wish to believe otherwise, he's not a coward.

Daenerys continues, with pointed comments about the noticeable lack of any army at Jaime Lannister's back when he arrived here. He answers easily enough, speaking of how Cersei lied to him as much as to all the rest of them, and of how he intends to keep the promise he made to fight for the living, so here he is. Sansa almost—_almost_—believes him, but it's still not enough. Not nearly enough.

Tyrion speaks up then, inevitably, much good though it does his brother. A good word from her Hand is little better than poison in the Queen's ears now, after so much bad advice, so many failures, and most particularly when that good word is for a Lannister. But who else here will dare to vouch for the Kingslayer, even if there are any present who have reason to think well of him?

It's enough for Sansa to make up her mind. "You're right. We can't trust him," she tells Daenerys. She has her own grievances against the Kingslayer, as she is quick to remind all present in detail.

He expresses no regret at the mention of his past misdeeds. He shows no shame when accused of attempting to destroy her family. But then, why would he? He is a man who long ago left behind whatever honour he might once have possessed—for all that Brienne has said that he treated her with courtesy in their dealings in King's Landing—and Sansa can't imagine that he's ever once looked back with regret since then. He says he'd do it all again, for his House and his family, and this much Sansa has no trouble believing.

It's only when Bran breaks in and says, "The things we do for love," that the Kingslayer looks rattled, actually _rattled_, for the first and only time. Those words mean something to him, have some significance that is known only to himself, and to Bran.

Daenerys breaks the silence, asking why Jaime Lannister has abandoned his House and family now. He doesn't answer immediately, and before he does so he turns and glances at… Brienne. Sansa looks sharply from one to the other. Her eyes are on Brienne when the Kingslayer says, "Because this goes beyond loyalty," and the way Brienne's eyes widen then tells Sansa that he's saying those words not to Sansa or even to Daenerys, but to Brienne. Sansa is sure of it. And perhaps it's only because of the closeness that exists between Brienne and Sansa, a sworn sword and her lady, that Sansa can tell that those few words have unsettled Brienne just as much as Bran's words did Jaime Lannister only a moment ago. "This is about survival," the Kingslayer concludes, and it's as if the entire room lets out a breath.

Sansa may be the only one present who is not utterly surprised when Brienne gets to her feet in the silence that follows the Kingslayer's words. She strides forward to stand, not at his side, as might be expected of an unlikely ally, but half in front of him—as if to protect him from Daenerys and even from Sansa herself. From everyone.

Sansa doesn’t understand it, particularly when almost the very first words out of Brienne's mouth are: "I know Ser Jaime. He is a man of honour."

Brienne. Brienne of Tarth. Brienne for whom personal honour is more sacred than a prayer said while kneeling in the sept. _Brienne_ believes that Jaime Lannister is an honourable man—a man worth saving.

Sansa listens as Brienne addresses Daenerys, talking about how _Ser Jaime_ lost his hand defending her. Sansa's heard something of that story before but never quite _why_ it happened. He suffered the loss of his sword hand trying to protect his captor? To protect Brienne? But there's no more time to consider that little revelation as Brienne turns to speak directly to her.

"Without him, my lady, you would not be alive. He armed me, armoured me, and sent me to find you and bring you home. Because he'd sworn an oath to your mother."

Brienne goes silent, her eyes still fixed on Sansa, letting her words hang in the balance between them.

Sansa doesn't know what to say for a moment. An oath made to her mother—as always, she can't prevent the tiny stab to her heart at the mention of Catelyn Stark—who'd been dead already when Jaime Lannister sent Brienne out to find Sansa. She'd noticed, of course, when Brienne had come in search of her that she was wearing Lannister armour—even though it was the wrong colour—and bearing a Lannister sword with a lion's head pommel. That sword was one of the reasons why Sansa had not trusted Brienne at first, when they'd met at that inn by chance on the road North, and not accepted Brienne's service when she offered it there and then—a decision Sansa would regret to her dying day, if she still allowed herself the luxury of regrets.

That sword, though… _He armed me_, Brienne has just said. It's something to ponder, but not right now. Right now, Brienne and everyone else require a response from her.

"You vouch for him?" Sansa asks, although the answer to that question is already abundantly clear.

"I do." Brienne's voice is clear and firm, as steady as, or steadier than, always. It's a solemn vow.

"You would fight beside him?"

"I would." Brienne sounds as if she's daring anyone to naysay her.

Jaime Lannister looks at Brienne then, pensive and… Sansa doesn't know what else is in his gaze, an unidentifiable mix of… something, but all his former pride and insolence is gone.

There's really only one thing she can say in answer to that, so she does:

"I trust you with my life. If you trust him with yours, we should let him stay." She knows that Daenerys has turned to stare at her, shocked at Sansa's about face. But Sansa is not Daenerys' creature. She belongs to no one and nothing but her family, Winterfell, and the North.

Brienne nods and returns to her seat as Daenerys turns to ask Jon's opinion, but it's almost a perfunctory question. Of course Jon will respond exactly as he does: they need every man they can get.

Jaime Lannister's eyes are on Daenerys again, narrowing a little as he no doubt weighs up the increasingly better odds that he will live to see at least one more sunset.

"Very well," Daenerys says, just two words, but they're enough. She nods to Grey Worm to return Jaime Lannister's sword. As he hands it over, so grudgingly that the Kingslayer has to grip the sword with some force before Grey Worm gives it up, the glinting ruby in the hilt catches Sansa's eye.

It's a match for the ruby eyes of the lion on Brienne's sword hilt. And it's familiar. She's seen that sword before.

_Why?_ she wonders again. _Why_ did he arm Brienne so?

But there's no more time for pondering. Jaime Lannister thanks Daenerys and bows, an action that only serves to make the cold fury on the Queen's face turn to ice. She stands, and everyone else in the room follows suit, including Sansa and Jon, but Sansa doesn't wait for Daenerys, or for anyone. She turns and leaves.

The trial is over. Jaime Lannister is a free man, the decision swayed by Sansa because Brienne trusts him and believes him to be a man of honour. And yet Sansa still does not understand.

~*~

Brienne follows Sansa to her solar. Once the door is safely shut behind them, Sansa takes a seat by the huge fireplace—as old and worn and familiar as all the rest of her home—as the snow flies outside the high, diamond-paned windows. It's getting colder, hour by hour, but there's still warmth to be had within the walls of Winterfell—in the right places. She indicates that Brienne should sit as well.

"My lady?" Brienne says as soon as she is seated opposite Sansa by the fire. It's a polite question. Brienne is always unfailingly polite to Sansa. And yet there's a wariness about her, too, something that Sansa has seen Brienne direct at others, but never at herself. Not until now.

Brienne knows her well enough that she must have a very good idea of what Sansa is going to ask. So why does that make Brienne wary?

Sansa finds herself wondering, for the first time since she took Brienne into her service, what Brienne might be trying to hide from her. It's an unsettling idea. Brienne's never before given her cause to think that. Until today, Sansa would have said without hesitation that Brienne had nothing to hide about anything, that she is the most honest and straightforward person that Sansa is ever like to meet. But just now Brienne stood without urging, without even being asked, in front of every important eye in Winterfell, and defended Jaime Lannister's _honour_ to the dragon queen. And for all that there can be no doubt that Brienne was honest about what she believes, there's nothing straightforward about it at all.

Sansa lets her mouth turn up at the corners, just the tiniest bit, to show that the questions she has for Brienne are asked in a spirit of goodwill. If anything, Brienne sits even straighter than before, her mouth a thin, grim line. Sansa sits as straight as she can as well, shoulders back, head held high. She feels as if she owes Brienne that much, that they meet eye to eye while Sansa decides if they still _see_ eye to eye.

"I supported you in there, Brienne. Because I trust you and I trust your judgement. But I don't understand your reasons for what you did, so I'm asking you now. Why?"

Brienne doesn't answer at once. The struggle to find the right words plays out clearly on her face. Outside the window, the snow falls more heavily. "I… It was something I had to do, my lady," she says eventually.

At least she doesn't pretend that _she_ doesn't understand. Sansa supposes that that is something.

"And why is that?" Sansa prompts. The question comes out a bit sharper than she intends, so she does her best to temper it with something not quite as all encompassing. "Are you and Jaime Lannister friends, perhaps?" _That_ comes out sounding more disbelieving than Sansa wants it to. However it appears that this, at least, is a question that Brienne feels able to answer without spending the next half an hour pondering it first, because she says, easily enough:

"No, I wouldn't call us friends, my lady."

"And yet, you must be more than acquaintances, to know him well enough to be sure he is a man of honour." And yes, Sansa knows at least some of what the two of them have been through together, that 'acquaintance' is no more useful a description than 'friend'—but she'll keep presenting Brienne with words to use until Brienne chooses one or finds one of her own.

"I was his captor, as you know, and then we were captives together."

Captor and captive. Captives. They're accurate enough descriptions, and yet they still tell Sansa nothing. "I imagine you learned something of each other in that time," she says, and waits.

"We got to know each other," Brienne says after a pause so long that Sansa is on the brink of opening her mouth to say something else. "Quite well."

Sansa waits again. Beside them, the fire pops and crackles behind the grate, and the flickering light casts shadows across Brienne's face, making her look, just for a moment, mysterious and unknowable. And then Brienne turns her head, just a little, and she's blunt and honest Brienne again. She fixes Sansa with a very long, very intensely blue stare. It's as close to reproachful as she's even been towards Sansa. Sansa knows that she's not being entirely fair to Brienne, but she needs a proper answer, she needs to understand just what was at the heart of Brienne's actions this morning. She's at least as good at staring as Brienne, though, and as she meets Brienne's gaze unflinchingly and waits for her to speak, it occurs to Sansa that Brienne's blue armour is a match for her eyes.

So, Jaime Lannister has been on the receiving end of that stare, too. Sansa's not sure what it means, but it seems unlikely to be a coincidence. It's one more piece in the puzzle, though she hasn't yet worked out exactly where it fits.

"You got to know each other quite well… " Sansa prompts, when the silence starts to stretch again and it appears that no more words are forthcoming.

"Quite well," Brienne says, biting her lip and frowning as she clearly searches for more words, some other way of expressing her answer that might satisfy Sansa and bring this conversation to a merciful end. "Quite… intimately."

Sansa almost chokes, and it sounds as if Brienne actually _does_ choke, because she blenches, looking horrified, and swallows hard before adding hurriedly, "No, not like that. Nothing like that. Ser Jaime and I went through a great deal together, and that included some unavoidable intimacies, like being bound back to back on the same horse, sleeping side by side on the muddy ground, with no one to rely on but each other, often no company or conversation—such as it was—but each other's. That... sort of thing," Brienne finishes rather lamely.

But Brienne is blushing now, Sansa notices. Her face has gone from pale to ruddy in the space of a few sentences. It's obvious that the ones she's mentioned aren’t the only intimacies that Brienne and Jaime Lannister experienced together. If they didn’t lie together, and Sansa is sure Brienne is telling the truth about that—because no single man could force himself on Brienne, and, just like Sansa, it's obvious that she has no use for a man in that way—then what?

"That sort of thing," Sansa repeats. She folds her hands in her lap.

"And he jumped into a bear pit," Brienne blurts out, and then claps a gloved hand over her mouth, as if she's let slip some great secret.

Sansa stares at her, not quite sure that she heard that right. She just manages to stop her mouth from dropping open in a very unladylike manner. A bear pit? And then, because the question still makes no sense, she says it out loud: "A bear pit? Why would he do such a thing?" Why would any man do such a thing?

Brienne's hand slips from her mouth, coming to rest, perhaps unconsciously, against her chest. "It was at Harrenhal. There was a bear in the pit," she says, though that's already clear. "And me. I was there. In the pit. Roose Bolton's men threw me in there. I was wearing a dress that Lord Bolton had forced on me, and was given only a tourney sword with which to defend myself."

If Brienne had looked horrified before, Sansa wishes there were some other, better, _greater_ term to describe how she herself feels right now. "That's… That's monstrous," she says. No real weapon, no armour at all. It was a death sentence, and a potentially drawn out and painful one, at that. It must have been a terrifying ordeal, even for someone as effortlessly brave as Brienne. Even the meanest of criminals in the North are spared that sort of end. Justice must be carried out cleanly and swiftly, as Father always taught them. But of course this was no justice at all, nor meant to be.

"It was not honourable. I was their… sport." Brienne's mouth is a thin line again, but there's more than a flash of anger in her eyes now. Her hand falls to her side, fingers clenching hard around the narrow arm of the chair. "Ser Jaime had already left for King's Landing by then, but he returned unexpectedly, and when he looked down and saw me, he did not hesitate. He jumped straight in."

"With only one hand," Sansa says, her voice fainter than she wishes it to be. She nods, trying to act as if what Brienne has just said is something commonplace that belongs in an ordinary conversation. But she still can't quite believe it.

"And no weapon."

Sansa is so surprised that her eyes go wide at that, before she has a chance to temper her response. It's an unbelievably foolish, reckless _brave_ thing to do. Almost, it sounds like something out of a song, except that Brienne isn't and never has been a beautiful, helpless maiden, and Jaime Lannister is the very opposite of a hero. Or so she's always thought.

"Why have you never told me of this?" Sansa asks the question, though she is fairly sure of the answer she is going to receive. She doubts that such an experience is something she herself would wish to talk about, even had she been simply an observer and not a participant.

"I… prefer not to dwell on it," Brienne says, with what Sansa feels must be massive understatement. "But I'm telling you now, my lady, that just as you are alive because of Ser Jaime's actions, so am I. He saved my life that day, beyond any shadow of a doubt." She looks so earnest in that moment, so very Brienne, that even if Sansa did not wish to believe her, she would have no choice but to do so.

"I can well believe that, and I'm glad for it. I'm glad for both our sakes." It is no less than the truth.

Brienne doesn't smile—not that she ever smiles, not really—but her expression is suddenly not quite so grim.

"I understand, now, at least a little, why you consider Ser Jaime to be a man of honour," Sansa continues, "But there's one thing I still don't quite comprehend."

"My lady?" And the wariness is suddenly back, full force, in Brienne's face and voice.

"You said that he armed and armoured you before he sent you off on your quest to search for me. The armour is of the first quality, there can be no doubt, and nothing less than I would expect of a Lannister determined to pay his debts… But your sword, Brienne. Why did he give you that sword in particular?" She nods towards the sword that, as always, hangs by Brienne's side. "It looks to be the twin of the sword that he carries himself, unless I am mistaken." But of course she's not mistaken, and they both know it.

If anything, Brienne's expression turns even more remote, but she answers almost at once this time. "It… it is, my lady. Both swords are made of Valyrian steel."

"But the Lannisters' Valyrian steel sword was lost, long ag-" Sansa goes hot and then cold. So very, very cold, and sick in the pit of her stomach. In the fireplace, a flame leaps high, as if it might disappear straight up the chimney. "It's the one Lord Tywin gave Joffrey, isn't it? Not this one, but the one S- Jaime _Lannister_ carries, isn't it? _Isn't it._" Brienne stares at her, so still that she might be rooted to the spot, or frozen solid. If she can't talk—_won't_ talk—then Sansa _will_. "I remember now—how could I ever forget?—that day when Tywin Lannister gave Joffrey his Valyrian steel sword. He said there were only two in the whole of King's Landing. Yours must be the other."

Every trace of colour has left Brienne's cheeks, her freckles standing out against the deathly pale skin beneath. Has she frozen indeed?

"My lady," Brienne says hoarsely. "I should tell you-"

"No, you shouldn't tell me. You should have _already_ told me." Sansa is suddenly on her feet, because she can't bear to sit any longer, and Brienne immediately stands as well. She towers over Sansa, just as she always does, but somehow this time it feels only physical. In some strange way, Sansa is looking down at Brienne even as she tilts her head up so that they're eye to eye again.

"Yes, I should have told you, my lady. The fault is mine." Brienne doesn't look away, but her voice is low and rough, just short of breaking. "My sword, Oathkeeper, and Ser Jaime's sword, Widow's Wail, which once belonged to King Joffrey, were both forged in King's Landing, after Tywin Lannister had your father's greatsword, Ice, melted down."

Inside, Sansa grows colder. The art of making Valyrian steel is lost to history, and only a handful of smiths now living know the trick of reforging it. Of course any _new_ weapon of Valyrian steel must be made from melting down an existing one. She'd wondered what had happened to Ice after Ilyn Payne had used it to- after Father's death. And she'd known, or stopped herself just short of knowing, when she'd watched as Widow's Wail was presented to Joffrey on his wedding day, where it must have come from.

And yet, when she'd first seen Brienne's sword, she'd pegged it immediately as a Lannister sword, but she hadn't made the connection. As on Joffrey's wedding day, she hadn't wanted to.

But now the connection has been made.

Brienne is holding herself even straighter than before, ramrod straight, steeling herself as though preparing to attend her own execution. "Ser Jaime told me where the sword came from when he gave it to me," she says. "He told me it had been reforged from Lord Stark's sword and that I should use it to defend Lord Stark's daughter. And I have, my lady. Always. Ever since that day, that has been my first concern."

Sansa waits before she says anything more, half-expecting that Brienne will kneel and offer the sword back to her. As the lady of Winterfell, Sansa has more right to claim the ancestral sword of House Stark than anyone save, perhaps, Jon. He hardly needs it, though. He already has a Valyrian steel sword of his own.

But Brienne doesn't offer the sword—or really half of the sword—back. Perhaps she feels that since she is Sansa's sworn sword she has already offered it up to Sansa, if only symbolically. Instead, she says, very, very quietly, "And now the two halves of Ice have been reunited, here at Winterfell, and are ready to defend the North once more."

The cold in Sansa shatters, in a heartbeat, and all that's left is raging heat. Raging… rage. "Leave," she says, through clenched teeth, afraid to say more in case it all comes roaring out of her. It would be satisfying, for an instant, but she would regret it later. "Leave _now_."

"Yes, my lady." Brienne bows. Is that relief on her face? Or is Sansa just imagining it? It hardly matters. For the first time since that day in the snow when she said the time-honoured words and took Brienne as her sworn sword, Sansa wonders if she can rely on Brienne as utterly and completely as she'd thought.

She doesn't say another word, but simply watches as Brienne strides from the room, that… that _sword_ at her hip.

Sansa waits until the door closes behind Brienne. She makes herself count to ten, slowly. And then she turns and snatches up one of the goblets on the table next to her, and hurls it as hard as she can at the wall. It's silver, and clangs loudly as it hits the thick stone, and then again as it clatters against the floor.

Sansa lets out a long breath, pours herself a goblet of wine, and turns her chair away from the fire—away from the sight of the other chair, where Brienne had sat and not quite lied to her—before sitting down again at the table.

It's only after she's taken a long draught and felt the wine settle in her belly, bringing with it an unnatural calm, that it occurs to her that she still doesn't really know why Jaime Lannister gave Brienne that sword. Oathkeeper. It's a pretty tale, like something out of a song, to use Ned Stark's sword to defend Ned Stark's daughter.

But Sansa's not a child, and she no longer believes in songs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa continues to try to work out just what lies between Brienne and the Kingslayer, while the battle with the dead draws ever closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few lines of dialogue in this chapter come directly from Episode 8x02 and so, of course, are not mine.
> 
> Thanks to slisthrufingers, Firesign and Nire, for listening to my dark mutterings while I wrestled with this chapter.

Sansa has learnt from many people in her life. Littlefinger taught her many things. More than he knew, and what she learnt from him was not always the same thing as what he intended to teach her. Cersei, too, in her way, taught Sansa much. From Cersei, Sansa learnt both what the game was and how _not_ to play it. Sansa prides herself on being a just leader, for one thing. It's something Cersei would never understand, justice. Or loyalty. It's ironic, really, that Cersei's once-prized twin brother only remains alive now because Sansa heeded Cersei's example, but not in the way Cersei would have expected.

But the person who taught Sansa the most was also the one who taught her from the first. Mother had been preparing her to be the lady of a great castle from almost the day Sansa was born. She demonstrated with her every word and action how to conduct herself, how to hold herself, how to _be_, long before Sansa realised that it was all as much a lesson as anything that Septa Mordane imparted to her—and tried and failed to drum into Arya.

One of Mother's silent lessons had been to _be aware_, to know what was going on in every nook and cranny, every corner of Winterfell. The Stark of Winterfell may be the Warden of the North, but the lady of Winterfell is the mistress of the house, its chatelaine, and it is her domain and her responsibility.

Sansa is endlessly busy even now that Jon is back, and ostensibly the Warden of the North again. But Jon's focus is all on preparing for the coming battle; at least, that is, when his attention is not claimed by the dragon queen. Winterfell is still Sansa's—and not just the house itself—and all the castle's inhabitants seem to know it, from the steward and the master-at-arms right down to the lowliest kitchen girl and stable boy. They know to come to her with any problem that is not, well, something to do with the coming battle or the dragon queen.

_Be aware_.

After her conversation with Brienne—Sansa will not call it an interrogation though she knows her questions danced dangerously close to that at times—she makes the rounds of Winterfell, calming slowly as she walks, talks, and solves a thousand small problems. It's some time after noon when she finds herself on the battlements that look down over the training yard, and to her surprise she finds her erstwhile husband there too.

Tyrion doesn't notice her approach until she's almost right beside him—or, if he does, he gives no sign of it. He's too busy staring down, watching his brother cross the yard, making his way to where a tall, pale-haired knight in blue armour is standing and observing the practice session.

"I used to think your brother was just an extension of Cersei," Sansa says by way of greeting.

"He was," Tyrion says, glancing up at her before returning his attention to the yard below, "and he wasn't."

"You say that as if it's in the past."

"Isn't it?" Tyrion asks. "Would he be here if he had not broken with Cersei?"

"You tell me. He's your brother."

"Oh, he's no longer Cersei's, without a doubt. He would not be here otherwise. Lady Brienne was right. He is a man of his word, and a man of honour, though I admit that he sometimes hides it well."

"Only sometimes?" Sansa arches her brows delicately, affecting surprise.

Tyrion inclines his head ever so slightly, acknowledging the hit, but all he says is, "If he says he's come here to fight for the living, then that's exactly what he intends to do."

Sansa nods. She can't trust Tyrion when it comes to nearly everything, especially not while he's Daenerys' Hand, but she trusts him in this: she trusts him to know his brother and to be honest about whatever he is willing to share with her on the subject, however little that might be.

Tyrion is still looking down into the yard and she follows his gaze. Jaime Lannister has reached Brienne. They're standing side by side, close enough for a quiet conversation, as they watch two men spar in the snow. One of the men pivots, and she sees that it is Podrick, Brienne's squire—and once Tyrion's squire, too.

"What do you think they're talking about?" Sansa asks.

"I know my brother better than anyone, but even I cannot know his every thought."

_And yet_, Sansa thinks, _you're watching him now and wondering, and you're probably coming to some conclusions that you don't intend to share with me._

"You know Lady Brienne far better than I do," Tyrion continues. "What do you think they're talking about?"

It's a good question. What does a lady—even a lady like Brienne—talk about with the man whose honour—and very life—she has just defended publicly? Most particularly, what does one say when that man is one who has saved one's own life in… circumstances that were more than usually memorable, even for someone who lives by the sword as Brienne does?

Brienne and Jaime Lannister are walking now, making their way together past the men practising in pairs and small groups, Brienne pointing to the hillock that lies just beyond the yard, as they continue their conversation.

"Perhaps he's thanking her," Sansa says at last.

"Perhaps," Tyrion says, just as Brienne stops abruptly and turns to face her companion. Even from here, it's clear that everything about her stance is accusatory, maybe even angry. "Or, perhaps not," Tyrion adds dryly.

There's a short, sharp exchange of words, that much Sansa can tell, but then they go… not exactly calm, but not exactly hostile either. They're standing close together, eyes intent on each other, and Sansa would guess that whatever they're saying matches the picture they present. Yes, _intensity_, that's the word. After a moment, Brienne walks away, but not… not angrily. It's not even her usual purposeful stride. She just… walks, as if she has a lot on her mind, as if Jaime Lannister has told her something unexpected—but perhaps something that is not entirely unwelcome, for all that.

The Kingslayer does not follow Brienne, but he stands there and watches after her. Sansa isn't sure of just what he sees when he looks at Brienne's retreating back, but she's fairly sure that it's not the same Brienne that Sansa knows.

It's still an unsettling thought, that there could be more sides to Brienne than the one that Sansa knows, but it's no longer unsettling in quite the same way that it was during their conversation this morning. She knows Brienne and, however disappointed she was in her for a fleeting moment, she still trusts her absolutely. And while she does not trust Jaime Lannister beyond Brienne's own trust in him, for reasons too numerous to count, she's learned to observe people very carefully in the years since she first went south, and what she just witnessed below did not give off the whiff of betrayal, nor anything like it. Whatever lies between Brienne and Jaime Lannister—and Sansa still has no good idea of what that might be—it doesn't seem to pose a threat. It's something else entirely. Maybe it's not about Houses Stark and Lannister at all, but about two people who've somehow learned to respect each other, despite being on opposite sides.

But of course they're not on opposite sides any more. At least, not for the moment. Jaime Lannister told Daenerys that he intended to fight for the living, and everyone at Winterfell is united in that purpose.

For the moment.

"That was… illuminating," Tyrion says, and Sansa almost jumps. She'd forgotten that he's still there.

"Was it?" Sansa says.

"Oh, yes. Very illuminating indeed." He frowns down at the yard, where his brother has at last stopped staring off in the direction in which Brienne went, and is now walking back towards the castle walls. "If you'll excuse me, Sansa," he says, making a short bow.

Sansa inclines her head, and watches in turn as Tyrion hurries off along the battlements and down the stairs. He's going down to meet his brother, no doubt. After a moment, she follows at a slower pace. Lord Royce will be waiting to speak to her about the preparations for what might turn out to be a very short siege.

Everything else will have to wait, however much Sansa would like to get to the bottom of it.

~*~

Sansa and Lord Royce have almost finished their discussion, their plans well in hand for the moment that they finally shut the castle gates against all comers, when Daenerys walks into the council room, quite unannounced.

The Queen asks to speak to Sansa alone, and of course Sansa's not going to deny such a 'request', but she's still gratified when Lord Royce looks to her for her permission before quitting the room. That respect was hard-won, and she's relieved to find that it's not so easily lost.

The first words out of Danaerys' mouth are about Jaime Lannister. "I thought you and I were on the verge of agreement before," she says, as she approaches one slow footstep at a time. "About Ser Jaime."

Sansa stands her ground, in more ways than one. "Brienne has been loyal to me. Always. I trust her more than anyone." She lets her conviction colour her every word, so that not even Daenerys can find a way to doubt her sincerity.

The conversation moves on, inevitably, to Tyrion. And then to Cersei. At least there they find some common ground, and they both finally seat themselves at the table. Perhaps, just perhaps, they can navigate a path together through the conversational shoals. Daenerys is smiling, though, and Sansa does not trust that smile. It reminds her of Cersei's smile, though it's far subtler. Cersei would smile while her eyes remained green ice chips. Daenerys' smile is not cold, or at least this one isn't. It lights up her face and almost—almost—reaches her eyes, but never quite gets there.

And then the conversation arrives, as it was always going to, at the subject of Jon.

"He loves you, you know that," Sansa says.

"That bothers you." It's not a question.

"Men do stupid things for women. They're easily manipulated," Sansa says. It's not really an accusation, but just the simple truth. Even Jaime Lannister jumped into a bear pit for Brienne, though that was just stupid male honour rather than calculating female manipulation, so it's hardly in the same league as the hold that Daenerys wields so easily over Jon.

Daenerys starts talking about the iron throne then, and Sansa prepares herself for the usual speeches about power. It's the sort of thing that Cersei would say, and then follow it up with a nasty little practical demonstration to make her point. But Daenerys isn't Cersei. She isn't anything like as obvious in the way she operates, and Sansa is forcibly reminded of that when the Queen circles the conversation back to talk about Jon, and her being here to help fight Jon's war. Their war. For the love of him, as much as because it's needful.

"Tell me, who manipulated whom?" Daenerys finishes.

She looks so sincere in that moment, that Sansa lets her guard down, just a little, lets a little warmth curve the corners of her mouth. Perhaps they have found a path that they can tread as allies after all. She leans forward, letting Daenerys see and hear her willingness to walk that path. "I should have thanked you, the moment you arrived. That was a mistake."

Daenerys reaches out impulsively—or as impulsively as a queen ever does anything—and takes Sansa's hand.

Sansa doesn't tremble. She shows no outward sign that the move is unwelcome. In the time since she fled Winterfell, fled _Ramsay_, and journeyed to Castle Black to find Jon, she's become better at controlling her response to this sort of thing, better at not flinching at the unexpected brush of skin against skin. But she still can't stop the silent scream, deep down and out of sight, and she shudders inside, as she does at any touch that is not of her own instigation.

"I'm here because I love your brother, and I trust him. And I know he's true to his word," Daenerys says.

Sansa wants to believe her. She's right about Jon, as true a man as ever drew breath. As true to his word and trustworthy as Father. But love? Daenerys talks of it as if it explains everything, while Sansa knows that falling in love is never an answer to anything at all. It's an illusion at best, a lie and a betrayal at worst. It's rolling over, revealing your soft underbelly and trusting that you won't be attacked, just because of _love_. Sansa does not have it in herself to trust any man like that, not any more, and she's fiercely glad of it. Romantic love is weakness, and Sansa is determined never to be weak again.

It makes her wonder if what Daenerys feels for Jon is truly love, or… something else.

But for now it doesn't matter. All that truly matters is that Sansa loves Jon with the love of a sister, and Daenerys loves him with what she thinks is the love of a lover, and they both trust in him as a man of his word. That will take Sansa and Daenerys as far as they need to go. Maybe even a long way farther.

"He's only the second man in my life that I can say that about," Daenerys says.

Sansa can't help but ask, "Who was the first?"

And when Daenerys replies, "Someone taller," it's impossible not to share a small, real—or almost real—laugh.

When was the last time Sansa laughed with another woman? Was it with Margaery Tyrell back in King's Landing? Sweet, scheming Margaery, who is now no more, like so many of those who have underestimated Sansa in the course of the journey that's taken her from being a daughter of Winterfell to being its lady. And it's because she _is_ Winterfell's lady that she can't let her next question remain unasked:

"What happens afterwards?" When Daenerys just looks at her, Sansa continues, "We defeat the dead. We destroy Cersei. What happens then?"

Daenerys stares at her as if she's a simpleton. "I take the iron throne."

Sansa's stomach clenches. She knows what's coming; there is no other option. Her vision of the path that they would walk together falls away into nothingness. "What about the North?" she asks, as carefully as she can, but it's still a blunt, unvarnished question, and perhaps that's for the best. "It was taken from us, and we took it back. And we said we'd never bow to anyone else again." She takes a deep breath. _"What about the North?"_

Daenerys snatches her hand back, and the moment is broken. There's something so utterly final about it that Sansa can't even feel relief that she no longer has to endure Daenerys' touch.

"Apologies, my lady. Your grace."

They both look to the doorway, where the voice has come from. It's the maester, his entrance ensuring that Sansa never gets an answer from Daenerys. Not that Sansa needs it. It's clear to her just what taking the iron throne means to the Queen. It means taking back the kingdoms, all seven of them, and that very much includes the North.

"What is it?" Daenerys asks, though her question sounds more like a demand, irritated and impatient.

'It' turns out to be Theon, and a handful of Ironborn. He looks to her, first, just for an instant, and Sansa swallows hard. She half-wonders if she's dreaming this. Maybe she's dreamed all of this day, starting with Brienne standing up to speak for Jaime Lannister.

But no, this is truly Theon. He kneels before the Queen, and answers Daenerys' questions about the whereabouts of his sister. She's sailed for the Iron Islands, to take them back in Daenerys' name. But when the Queen then asks him why he's here and not there with Yara, he doesn't answer her. Instead, he looks straight at Sansa and says:

"I want to fight for Winterfell, Lady Sansa. If you'll have me."

Sansa swallows again, and then she can bear it no longer. She bridges the distance between herself and Theon at a run and throws her arms around him. Inside she doesn't quake, she doesn't scream, as his hands come up to clutch her shoulders. It feels good and right and she thinks she might be crying, but she doesn't care. Theon is here. After everything they've both been through, Theon is here, pledging himself to Winterfell, to _her_.

It's only after the Queen has stalked past them, her bootheels ringing on the flagstones, that Sansa at last lets go of Theon. And it's only after he and his men have been led away to whatever quarters are available, before they go out to find what for at least some of them will be their last meal, that Sansa finally has the leisure—not that she can really call it that in these circumstances—to think again.

She makes her way through the corridors of Winterfell, mentally turning over the tangle of thoughts and feelings that the events of this day have already left her with.

There's no time now to think through all the implications of Daenerys' simple statement that she intends to take the iron throne. That will have to wait until after they defeat the dead. Sansa refuses to think of that in terms of 'if'. She only ever allows it to be 'when'. There are many tasks she should be attending to, and yet her thoughts stray back to Theon, and then, somehow, to Brienne and the scene she'd witnessed from the battlements earlier.

Had Brienne wanted to throw her arms around Ser Jaime when first she saw him after he arrived at Winterfell, just as Sansa threw hers around Theon just now? It seems almost impossible to imagine it, and yet… Something tells her that it wasn't just the bear pit incident that proved to Brienne that Ser Jaime is a man of honour. They've been through a great deal together, and seeing Theon again like this has reminded Sansa of _exactly_ what that means. There's a bond there, like a rope that no one else can see, tying two people together.

She turns out of the long gallery, and into yet another corridor, vaguely aware of people nodding and bowing as they hurry in the opposite direction.

Sansa knows that some at Winterfell will never be able to forget everything Theon has done, the terrible choices, the misdeeds and betrayals. They won't regard the long and terribly hard and costly road to redemption that followed as anything like enough to make up for what was taken from them. But Sansa would not be here if not for Theon. He saved her life when he helped her escape Winterfell when it was not her home, but the cage in which Ramsay had imprisoned her. Theon put himself between her and Ramsay's dogs as Sansa hid, hopelessly, beneath that huge old tree in the forest, after Ramsay's men caught up with them. They would have died there, together, and it would have been enough—almost—that they'd done everything they could to escape to freedom, had Brienne not been lying in wait for just such a moment to come charging to their rescue. But regardless of Brienne tipping the balance in their favour at the last, Sansa and Theon have been through things together—and unspeakable experiences at Ramsay's hands—that have forged a bond between them. It's a shared secret, and one that no one else will ever properly comprehend.

And might that not be the same for Brienne and Ser Jaime? He had jumped to Brienne, into a bear pit, just as Theon had jumped _with_ Sansa from the walls of Winterfell into the snow. But there must be more to it than that. There has to be. Ser Jaime lost his hand defending Brienne, but Brienne didn't flinch from mentioning that when she spoke for him this morning. However terrible and harrowing that incident was—and it clearly _was_—it wasn't private enough, personal enough, to the both of them to count in the way that Sansa's thinking of. Something else happened, something else at Harrenhal or somewhere along the road to King's Landing, and that something had made Brienne look at Ser Jaime in a different light. When she looks at him now, does Brienne see something that no one else can see—just as Sansa does when she looks at Theon?

She must.

There are too many similarities between Brienne's experiences and her own for Sansa, in all fairness, to ignore. Not just that they both know this sense of connection with someone, but also that neither of them wants a man in _that_ way. Even now, Sansa cannot think of what R- what happened to her, of what _Ramsay_ did to her, without wanting to be violently ill. She can make herself lay her hands on someone else, and even sometimes find comfort in it as she did when she hugged Theon, but the thought of anyone touching her first, without permission, or any _man_ touching her intimately again…

A tremor runs through her and she stops dead in the middle of the corridor, not even sure where she is right then, as her hands clench at her sides.

It's not the same for Brienne, of course. She fears almost nothing, and certainly not any man, but it's clear that she long since rejected the path that would have turned her into a wife and mother.

No, neither of them wants a man that way, but nor does either of them have any interest in the religious life, which is the usual option for any highborn lady who does not wish to take a husband. It's good—more than good—to have female companionship on that road ahead.

But before any of them get that far, there's a battle to fight.

The horns sound outside, as if in answer to her thoughts, loud enough to penetrate even the walls of Winterfell. Once, twice… and thrice.

Sansa knows what that means. White walkers. And it means men of the Night's Watch arriving ahead of them. She turns and starts making her way back the way she came. No doubt Jon will be calling them all together for one last council of war before very much longer. She'd best make sure all is ready in the council room.

~*~

The council starts much as Sansa might have expected. She stands on Jon's right on one side of the great square table bearing the map of Winterfell and its surrounds, with Arya on Jon's other side. Theon stands opposite them, glancing in her direction every now and then, and just along from him is Ser Jaime leaning forward a little as he considers the map, with Brienne standing straight and tall at his side.

The council continues much as Sansa might have expected, too, right up until the moment that Bran declares he's going to offer himself up to the Night King as bait. Sansa wants to tell him, no, he can't, and she would have if Bran were still really Bran, but… he's not. She doesn't waste her breath. It's better to keep it ready for any arguments that she might have a chance of winning.

And then Theon steps forward, offering himself up in what he knows is almost certain sacrifice, and Sansa goes so cold that she feels as if she is encased in ice. She hears the rest of the conversation as if through a wall of ice that only properly starts to melt when Jon ends things by saying: "Let's get some rest."

Jon strides out of the room, stopping only to acknowledge the Queen with a curt, formal, "Your grace," which Daenerys barely acknowledges. _What is that all about?_ Sansa wonders. It sounds a long way from _I love your brother_.

The others file out of the room after Jon. Sansa is one of the last to leave, and is not altogether surprised when Brienne approaches her. Brienne directs a speaking look at Ser Jaime, who is still at her side, and he returns it with a look that lingers on her face a second or two longer than courtesy strictly dictates before they seem to come to some sort of silent understanding.

"Lady Sansa," Ser Jaime says, with a quick, polite nod, and makes for the door.

Brienne doesn't speak until she and Sansa are out of the room. Only Bran and Tyrion remain behind them, and they appear to be in no hurry to leave. Everyone else is already dispersing, going their separate ways to find sleep, or food, or congenial company with which to pass the time in these final hours.

"My lady," Brienne begins, her brow creased unhappily and her jaw tense.

Sansa holds up a hand, stopping Brienne before she can plunge into whatever she feels she has to say.

"It's all right, Brienne. I don't think there's much point in going over what's already been said."

"Lady Sansa," Brienne tries.

"No, listen to me," Sansa says. Brienne falls silent but Sansa can almost hear her teeth grinding with the need to say something. "I… I wish you'd told me about the sword, and about some other things, too, long before today. But you didn't and I know you must have had your reasons."

Brienne takes a deep breath and lets it out again, very slowly. She's not a talkative person at the best of times, but right now it's obvious that she's fairly champing at the bit to say something.

Sansa continues, "I just wanted to say that now I've had a chance to think it over, there's no one I'd trust more with that sword than you, and no one I'd rather have wielding it in the battle that's coming." She smiles, a real smile, not like the ones she gave to Daenerys, even if it's a little sad, and nods at Brienne to speak.

Brienne nods, her lips clamped together in a firm line that's neither smile nor frown. Whatever it is, it's a determined look. "My lady, thank you. I'll do my very best to be worthy of the sword and of your trust."

"I know you will, Brienne. I can and would ask nothing more. You will be worthy, of that I have no doubt."

Brienne hesitates, frowning a little, and then she says in a rush, at odds with her usual slow and considered mode of speech, "You should also know that Ser Jaime will be serving under my command in the battle. It is at his request."

Sansa should be surprised, and yet she's not. There's something _right_ about the twin swords that together comprise her father's sword, her family's sword, slashing and hacking and _battling_ side by side in the defence of Winterfell. And it seems only right that the person wielding that second sword is someone whom Brienne trusts with her life, just as Sansa trusts Brienne with hers.

It feels like a circle, closing, complete and whole.

"Good. I'm glad. The two swords should be together," she says.

The crease between Brienne's brows smooths out, and if she's not smiling, she's at least no longer frowning. "Thank you, my lady," she says.

"Thank _you_, Brienne. For everything," Sansa says. She hugs Brienne, leaning her head against Brienne's broad shoulder as she feels Brienne's long arms come around her and clasp her awkwardly. After a moment, she steps back, and Brienne does too.

They stare at each other in solemn silence. It is Brienne who breaks it.

"My lady," Brienne says, her gaze and voice both steady and grave. "I just want to say now, just in case… It has been my honour and a privilege to serve you. Whatever may come in the next hours and those that follow them, always remember that."

Sansa doesn't lie. She doesn't tell Brienne that she'll be here to remind her for years to come, so there's no need for Sansa to remember. They both know that one or both of them could be dead come morning—if morning ever comes again.

"It has been my honour and my privilege to have you as my sworn sword, Brienne. Whatever may come, don't you ever forget that, either."

"I won't, my lady."

They share another long look.

"You should… go. Do whatever you need to do, want to do…" Suddenly Sansa is the awkward one.

"I should find out where Podrick is," Brienne says, and now there's a martial light in her eyes.

Sansa almost—almost—feels sorry for Podrick. Or she would, if she truly thought Brienne's gruff manner was the beginning and end of her regard for her squire. "Seek out Podrick, Brienne," Sansa says. "And… remember that I am with you in spirit, wherever this night takes you."

"And I with you, my lady." Brienne bows, and then she turns and strides away.

"My lady." Sansa almost jumps, and turns around to find Theon advancing towards her from a little farther along the gallery. He's been waiting far enough away for politeness, for Sansa and Brienne to have had their talk without being overheard, but close enough to see when the talk is done and Sansa is free. "Perhaps you'd care to take a bowl of soup with me, Lady Sansa," he says.

As the lady of Winterfell, there are many tasks that Sansa should be attending to, but right now none seem more important than this.

"Indeed I would, Theon," she says, and the smile she gives him is just as true as the one she gave Brienne. "But I think, tonight, if we're to sup together, you'd better call me Sansa."


End file.
